


Better Than No Story At All

by J (j_writes)



Category: Long Walk - King
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 18:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_writes/pseuds/J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands are clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than No Story At All

His hands are clean.

He washed them in the morning (a morning, he can't remember which one) before he left, quick and mundane, not taking the time to let the hot water soak into his skin, to enjoy the feel of soap making his fingertips slip against the backs of his hands. They shouldn't look clean now, after a lifetime of dusty roads, but when he lifts them to his face, they're no different than they would be on any other day, without a mark or a smudge on them. He hasn't touched anything since they started, except his hamburger (the residue of which had been licked away and smeared onto his shirt a thousand years ago), and Garraty.

He keeps looking down, checking, because Barkovitch's hands had looked clean too, right up until the end.

Ahead of him, Garraty's bleeding. Tiny pinpoints of blood, not falling, just gathering against his palm, scraped raw in the chaos of Freeport. He hasn't noticed, but McVries watches for a while, wondering if back in town, Garraty's girl or mother is looking down at a smear of blood on her hand. If maybe she didn't even notice, just brushed it away against her jeans, soaked it off with her tears.

Jan's hands were tiny. It was the one thing McVries had noticed about her, besides the quick impression of a shock of blonde hair. Her fingers had grasped at Garraty's, twisting between them, clinging tightly. The old Peter McVries, the one who started the Walk, would ask Garraty about them, about what she can do with them. But Garraty's head is down, his eyes fixed on his feet, lips quietly counting his steps, and McVries is tired, old, too worn down to bother opening his mouth.

Instead, he walks, and he watches Garraty's hands. They curl in on themselves as he counts, every twenty paces, like the pendulum on a clock. It's not hard to imagine them sneaking up the delicate material of that blue shirt, tracing edges of lace and fabric, fumbling with clasps. Awkward, just like the rest of Garraty, taking a few tries, then sliding against pale skin, hesitant in his success. It wouldn't take much to make Jan blush, McVries decides, spreading down from her cheeks to disappear into the neckline of her shirt, her lips parted a little, eyes on the movement of Garraty's hands.

He wonders how she bribed him, how she tried to get him to take the backout date. Hands down his pants, fumbling awkwardly on high school beds on a warm spring afternoon. Her mouth, maybe, sucking his fingers between her lips, letting him touch her, then sliding down the bed to swallow around him. Maybe less than that, just pushing him back into the grass and spreading out over him, kissing and rubbing against him through his pants until they were both gasping into each other's mouths, then backing up, sitting demurely on his lap, promising more. Later. When he stayed.

A drop of blood finally falls from the tip of Garraty's finger, and he starts, twitching, his hands curling into fists. McVries looks away. His pants are too tight now, rubbing against him, and he wants nothing more than to reach into them, jerk himself off, right there in front of the crowds and the Walkers and the soldiers and everyone. Instead, he takes a few steps, and a few more after that. Each step provides just enough friction to drive him a tiny bit further out of his mind.

"All right, Pete?" Garraty asks distantly, and when McVries looks up, Garraty's watching him, his eyes barely focused, almost looking through him.

"I'm good, yeah," McVries says, and all of a sudden the desperation's gone, and all he is is tired, too tired almost to breathe. "Here," he adds, and rips a bit off the bottom of his shirt, where it's starting to fray. He presses it into Garraty's palm, soaking up the tiny points of blood. He holds on for a second, keeping it in place until Garraty curls his hand around it.

When he lets go and steps away, his hands aren't clean anymore. He closes his eyes, and lets the sound of the crowd guide his feet.

He walks.


End file.
